Imprinting
by Chikku-Chikku
Summary: America didn't want Russia's thoughts and actions imprinted on him. It was too saddening, too painful. He thought that the insanity within him was enough; he didn't need Russia's along with it.


**A/N:** This will probably be a small collection of short oneshots spanning from America's time as a young nation to what he will become, as he learns lessons from Russia that have been imprinted upon his soul.

The plot bunnies wouldn't leave me, so yeah. This is the result of them C: I had intended to make this a long oneshot, but it seems to make more sense being a series now. It could be considered an AU, and not very accurate, history wise, that is. But meh, I haven't written anything Russia/America in awhile, so I thought a good dose of angst and tragedy would make up for the long absence x'D

Hopefully, I'll have the next chapter written soon and published. Reviews and critiques are much love~!

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><p><strong>Imprinting<strong>

_This childhood innocence. . . when did we lose it?_

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><p>It was before the Revolution, before the Civil War, and centuries before the world wars and proxy wars that would split them apart, when America stumbled upon Russia.<p>

Then, he had been naive, so very young, and not even recognizable as a country. His land was undeveloped, small in resources and stature, as was his mind. He was mashed up against larger, more competent world powers, being shoved and hassled around on every side as though he didn't matter. The modern world as he knew it had barely begun to form and there was certainly no hint, no possible thought, of _him _ever being important enough to worry about. No one expected him to rise up and become one its world leaders.

So, he had spent most of his early stages exploring the land, alone and unattended.

America recalled wandering through desolate fields that would later be named "The Thirteen Colonies", filled with a mixture of confusion, excitement, and nervousness. He recalled jumping and skipping through meadows filled to the brim with bloodied, gray grass; recalled laughing at the black smoke rising from the ground, forming shapes of animals, humans, and countries.

He remembered joining in on the screaming – a loud, piercing, vibrating noise that left him partially deaf but _exhilarated_ – with shouts of his own, cries of oblivious delight.

The child within America had felt that it was, oddly, wrong. The smell was disgusting – a charred, decaying scent that made him nauseous – and the sight of riverbeds lined in dark, red-brown liquid was disconcerting even to his young mind. Yet he pranced around, singing songs without words and humming melodies without tunes, until the very sun spluttered out over the horizon.

How could he have known that he was trumpeting the initial stages of war, or what was soon to be war?

When America first ran into Russia, he was still clueless of the world surrounding him. It had been a fine day, so the child country thought, since he could sing and see. The screaming cries were symphonies to him now, the smoke a welcoming sign of familiarity, of _home_.

He had trudged through fields of auburn grain, swinging his arms in sync with a cold, almost detached song, when a hand abruptly came down on his shoulder.

America remembered whirling around, shock and fear welling in his chest, before he met the eyes of an older country. The next thing he knew, the country's violet eyes flashed in sudden vehemence, and he was on the ground, cheeks flushed from the sting of a slap.

He would never ever forget the sight of Russia standing there that cold day, with silent tears streaming down his face, a limp sunflower in his hand, and those words coming out of his mouth.

_"Do not sing such songs when you are surrounded by the dead."_

And then the country had smiled crookedly, and instead of uttering syllables and sentences again, resonant _sound_ escaped from his lips.

It was low, soft, gentle and quiet. The murmurs of a phantom treading carefully on the grounds of the dead, respect and reverie in his tone. Even the wind seem to cling onto Russia's musical notes, spreading them wide and far across the barren fields of blood, freeing the souls that had been trapped in the realm between living and dead.

It was so different from his endless songs of carefree, happy oblivion. So very different from his disregard of the situation, the disrespect of his cheerful melodies. . . so very different from the childhood madness that had gripped him only minutes ago.

America remembered how he had couldn't stop crying after that day.

And he remembered Russia's embrace, the country smoothing back his hair and whispering words of forgiveness in his ears until he was smiling again. The look in the older nation's eyes had been empty, but bright at the same time. He began singing once more, this time a soothing tune that slowly lured America to sleep, where he dreamed not of smoke and blood-stained grass, but of clear skies and fresh, dew-covered grass.

America knew even then, as he slipped into a deep slumber, that Russia had imprinted something huge, something significant in his heart –

_Care._


End file.
